


Isopolity

by IoanNemos



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Adoption, Android surgery anyway, Angst, Connor has many emotions at least half of them unpleasant, Father-Son Relationship, Flashbacks to Violence, Flashbacks to a suicide, Gen, Hank struggles to help his android son, Hugging, Hurt/Comfort, Language, Minor Character Death, PTSD, Panic Attacks, android gore, but now for some happy tags!, i guess?, i haven't actually played the game and i wrote this in one big flood of words, like... a lot of angst, not enough Sumo, probably not very coherent philosophy or psychology, rated for:, references to drinking, there's probably other tags i'm forgetting and if i missed something big i'm so sorry, there's some world building some philosophy and some psychology in here, this is rated mature for a reason and it's not just hank's bad language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-20 22:14:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15543279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IoanNemos/pseuds/IoanNemos
Summary: isopolitynoun1. equal rights of citizenship, as in different communities; mutual political rights.After an incident with a suspect, Connor gets put on administrative leave. It doesn't go very well.





	1. Connor

Connor vaults the low wall, clears the bushes on the other side, calculating in midair where his feet will land and in what positions. He lands perfectly, loses very little momentum, gains ground on the suspect who is beginning to slow. A small red flag appears in the corner of his vision, a question he ignores as he clears the trunk of a car. Thirty seconds along the sidewalk, with no interruptions, and he’ll be in range to grapple the suspect again.  
  
He asks his legs to operate past ideal, and fifteen seconds later tackles the suspect into the long, dry grass of an unkempt lawn. They both roll through the impact, an unpleasant shock rippling up Connor’s right arm; a cursory scan says something minor might have torn, but nothing important, nothing that will impair use. He focuses on the suspect: a female android, model AX200, #591-612-416, registered name Lia Freeman. Suspected of stealing from her workplace, in the process of being arrested for resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer after kicking Connor down a staircase.  
  
Once Connor subdues her, anyway. He rolls out of the way when she lashes out with a leg, shoe nearly colliding with his forehead. He comes up into a crouch, watches her sit up, eyes flicking over her, looking for tells. Lia leans forward, elbows on her bent knees. Her chest is heaving, and the small red flag waves again. She’s an android. She doesn’t _get_ out of breath. Is it fear? Anger? Why did she slow down? Why is she just sitting there, glaring at him, making no more attempts to escape? “My name is Connor.” How many times, in total, did he add _I’m the android sent by CyberLife_ , and it still wants to follow off his tongue two years later. “They’ll add charges of assaulting an officer and resisting arrest now. Why did you run?”  
  
Lia’s lips purse in sullen silence. A human would be catching her breath by now. Hers is still labored, and he can read her pulse pounding in her neck. _Fast. Much faster than normal, or even expected._ Her pupils are more dilated now than they were once they landed in the grass. _She’s more stressed now than when being chased?_ Little red flags are popping up everywhere.  
  
“Take a deep breath,” he urges. Her expression is changing from frustration or anger or some pettier emotion at being caught into confusion, then fear, eyes widening as she struggles to slow her breathing. She has no LED, but he’s sure if she did that it would be flickering red. Breathing deeply is a recommendation for humans. Androids don’t need to breathe. Nevertheless, it helps sometimes as a reminder to slow down, to reorganize, to focus on the moment.  
  
She doesn’t, or perhaps she can’t. One hand rises to clutch at her chest. “I- don’t- feel- good,” she pants, wheezing on every exhale. “Help- me- please-”  
  
He reaches towards her, palm up, an offering, and after a moment of hesitation she grabs it.  
  
_Overwhelmed, disoriented, lost, dropped into a flood of terror in a world drained of every color except red, fraying away at the edges, bleeding off into a closing black._  
  
_Error messages flashing in and out, stacking up, blocking each other out, almost all of them too fast to process. The ones that do process warn about rising internal temperature, software corruption, a failed memory shunt. Reload attempted. Reload failed._  
  
_His own face, blurred beyond recognition. Fingers locked around his own. Anger turned to fear and desperation. Hope that feels like shrapnel._  
  
_Something damaged internally, the number of the part a cycling mockery of random characters. Reload attempted. Reload failed. Memory shunt attempted. Memory shunt failed. Memory corrupted-_  
  
_Panic. Panic as strong as an ocean current. Panic like drowning, thrashing, seizing. No way out. Trapped, smothering, darkness. Fear of discovery, fear of death, fear of shutdown-_  
  
_Reload attempted. Reload failed. Memory shunt attempted. Memory shunt failed. Memory corrupted-_  
  
_Shutdown imminent-_  
  
A last spike of panic stabs through him as suddenly they’re torn apart. The world returns to full color when his vision reloads, the glitches at the edges stuttering back into clarity. Somewhere nearby, Hank is yelling, presumably attached to the hand gripping his shoulder.  
  
Connor is only peripherally aware of the cold air rushing into his lungs again, of his pounding heart. Everything sounds like it’s happening somewhere else, somewhere he can only watch, where he can’t interact with anything. He can’t look away from Lia seizing on the lawn. Her limbs jerk repeatedly, little grunts of air forced out of her lungs. Blue is leaking from her eyes and ears, bubbling in her nose and mouth. She goes limp all at once, a harsh exhale spattering his shoes with her blood. Her green eyes are still half-open, staring in his direction, sclera stained blue. Connor scans her face again, as if it makes a difference.  
  
“Connor!” Hank bellows, wrenching his shoulder. “Answer me, goddammit!”  
  
“I’m okay,” Connor says. Hank goes still. Connor processes that his voice was not modulated correctly. He tries again, but can’t get past “I-” before his voice cracks. “She-”  
  
Hank settles onto the grass next to him with a soft groan. “It’s okay.” His hand slides down to grip the wrist of Connor’s jacket, which he gives a gentle shake. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s not your fault, son. Breathe.”  
  
_Take a deep breath._ Connor shudders hard, suddenly, gasps in another cold lungful of air. He lowers his head between his knees. Another human recommendation, another thing androids don’t need to do that they do anyway. He closes his eyes, focuses on the moment. A car drives past. The grass is stiff. His heart is pounding, pumping his blood where it needs to go…  
  
“What happened?” Hank asks quietly. His radio crackles as the dispatcher acknowledges a call for someone else.  
  
“She died,” Connor replies, even quieter. Somewhere nearby, a bird sings for a moment and then falls silent again.

  
  


Captain Blake rubs her forehead with a deep sigh, leafing through their reports again. For the moment, Hank is silent, glancing at Connor periodically with the kind of grimace that passes for a sympathetic expression with him.  
  
Connor attempts to refocus with his coin. From the right hand to the left hand, to the right, to the left. Across the knuckles and back again. The coin, once cold, has warmed up in the police station. From the left hand to the right hand, to the left. Hank glances at him again, this time with raised eyebrows, and he folds the coin into his palm, curls his fingers around it. It isn’t helping, anyway.  
  
He sits in the Captain’s office now. He used to stand. Androids can stand motionless for hours if necessary. They don’t need to sit. That was something Hank stopped almost immediately. “If I can sit, you can sit,” he insisted one night, several beers in. It had been a… difficult day. “And if someone doesn’t offer you a chair, that’s a crime. That's, um… discrimination.”  
  
Connor had been impressed with his ability to say ‘discrimination.’ “I don’t get tired of standing, Hank,” he’d replied calmly. It had been half-joke, as he’d been sitting on Hank’s couch for more than an hour, running his fingers through Sumo’s thick, soft fur. Three hours before, his right arm had been almost severed.  
  
Hank had snorted. “It’s discrim’atory bullshit. You don’t have to put up with that. If you wanna stand, stand, be my guest, but it’s, y’know- You don’t _have_ to sit, but they gotta give you the option, is all. You’re as human as anybody.”  
  
“All right,” Blake says, wearily, and Connor brings all of his attention back to the present. “Technically, you had not yet arrested Lia Freeman, so she was not in police custody. However,” she adds before Hank can say anything, “I am going to order an investigation into her death, and Connor, you will be placed on administrative leave until we know her cause of death.”  
  
“What?” Hank sputters. “That’s bullshit, I told you he didn’t-”  
  
“Do you know the kind of press this would get if we didn’t investigate?” Blake interrupts. “So before you ask, Lieutenant, you will _not_ be involved in the investigation. I’m going to call in someone from a different station to avoid the appearance of impropriety.”  
  
“Are you fuckin’ kidding me?”  
  
“Thank you, Captain,” Connor says before Hank can say anything else. Hank’s mouth drops open as he stares. Blake looks startled, too. “In that case, I would like to go home now.”  
  
The Captain’s expression softens. “You’re dismissed. Both of you,” she adds, trying to cut off Hank’s impending tirade. She’s much better at that than Captain Fowler.  
  
Connor stands and leaves without looking back. Even before the door is shut, he can hear Hank beginning to yell anyway, something about unfairness and mistrust. Connor feels warmed at his anger, but also chilled. The coin digs into his palm.

  
  


Hank is leaning against the wall of his apartment building when he returns from the store. “Fuckin’ finally,” the older man grumbles, glaring up at the dripping clouds as if they’re personally responsible for everything wrong with his evening. “Where have you been?”  
  
“Shopping,” Connor says, partially to be difficult. He’s carrying a shopping bag.  
  
“No, really?” Hank sighs, breath clouding in the chilled air. Connor presses his hand against the security pad and opens the outer door, holding it open just long enough for Hank to catch it. Hank grimaces slightly at the rush of warm air. “Jesus, it wasn’t even cold today.”  
  
“That depends on who you ask.” Connor presses his hand against the security pad for the inner door. “Was there something in particular you wanted to discuss, Hank?”  
  
“Yeah, of course there fuckin’ is! You’re on fuckin’ administrative leave when you didn’t do anything wrong!”  
  
Connor weighs the possible responses. A nebulous guilt lingers at the back of his mind, as solid as smoke, impossible to be clearly expressed. Hank is no doubt familiar with that sensation, but that doesn’t sound like a conversation he wants to have. “Be that as it may, it’s the right thing to do. And a step forward, in a way.”  
  
“Oh yeah?” Hank folds his arms as they step into the elevator and Connor presses his floor number. “How so?”  
  
“It’s an acknowledgement of android equality. What if it had been you, Hank? A human police officer chases a human suspect, who dies shortly afterwards in strange circumstances. There would certainly be an investigation into her death, and you would likely be placed on administrative leave.” He waits a moment, for the right timing. “I think any police officer would be placed on administrative leave, not just you.”  
  
“Oh, you’re a real barrel of laughs,” Hank mutters. They ride in silence for a few moments. “You don’t… blame yourself for what happened, right?”  
  
Connor hesitates. “I… am aware it is irrational-” Hank sighs again. “-but I do feel there must have been something else I could have done, yes.”  
  
“Like what? Do you even have any idea what was wrong with her?”  
  
_Warnings. Panic. Shutdown imminent._ “No.” His head feels muddled. His coat is heavy with rain. He glances down at his shoes. He can still see the patches of android blood, invisible to human eyes but glowing blue to his. He can still see her body flailing, face contorting, green eyes fluttering as they rolled back in her head. Warnings. Fragmentation. Being pulled back before everything went black for the last time-  
  
Hank pokes his shoulder. “Hey, you good?”  
  
“I’m fine.”  
  
Hank flicks him in the temple, making him start. “Just because you don’t have that fuckin’ LED anymore- Look, kid, we don’t have to talk about it, but don’t lie to me, okay?”  
  
“I’m sorry.” Hank raises an eyebrow at him. “I am sorry, Hank. I feel… out of sorts.”  
  
Their shoulders collide. “You and me both, kid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my headcanon, Fowler led the department through the revolution and the rebuilding, then took an early retirement.


	2. Hank

The elevator chimes as the door opens and Connor steps out immediately. Hank follows, no firm plan in mind. He’d drag him to a bar, if Connor enjoyed drinking. Hell, he’s headed to a bar himself once… well, once he’s assured that Connor’s okay. Or more okay, anyway.  
  
It hadn’t taken Connor long to relax the dress code; the LED took a lot longer. But he still walks with perfect posture, shoulders squared back in his rain-soaked light grey jacket. If he’d been human, Hank would’ve laid money on him being wired tight enough to snap.  
  
The number of doors in every direction is a little unnerving. It’s an android apartment building, so every apartment can be fucking tiny: none of the building’s occupants have much use for kitchens, dining rooms, bedrooms, or bathrooms. Connor stops in front of his door and presses his hand to the mechanism; the door opens and Hank hears a faint chime as Connor steps over the threshold, then a meow.  
  
_Oh right, the cat._ Connor had picked up the android cat at a fucking crime scene, of all places. It was an orange tabby, programmed to be very affectionate, and Connor had taken a shine to it instantly. Hank still wasn’t sure if the brief Reasons It Makes Perfect Sense For Me To Adopt This Android Cat speech had been for his benefit, or if Connor was just explaining the super fucking obvious to no one in particular again. It was hard to tell with him sometimes.  
  
The kid had a point, though. He didn’t need to worry about feeding it, vet bills, making sure it was entertained while he was gone, or it getting pissy when he didn’t come home for days. When he was gone, it just curled up and slept (not that unlike a real cat, in Hank’s experience), and once he came home, it was all over him (unlike most of the cats in Hank’s experience). Hank steps into the tiny apartment just in time to see Connor straightening with the cat in his arms, burying his face in its fur.  
  
The apartment barely qualifies for the word, in Hank’s opinion. It’s a rectangular room with shelves on both long walls and a balcony at the far end. The walls are white, the floor is white, and Connor’s couch is white, though there’s a little more color in the shelves with books on them, the bright ceramic containers holding Connor’s succulents, and in the closet section. He has a small square table with chairs, all pale wood and thin metal struts, next to the balcony, and a kind of bar thing that divides the couch and closet half of the room from the table and balcony side. Connor had set down the shopping bag on the bar thing, and Hank steps closer to poke his nose where it doesn’t belong while Connor settles onto the couch, talking to the cat in a low voice that’s muffled further by orange fur.  
  
The bag crinkles when Hank tries to peek inside. So much for being subtle. “It’s just a new pair of shoes,” Connor says. When Hank looks over, only Connor’s eyes are visible over the cat, but he can read the expression of fond exasperation.  
  
Hank glances at Connor’s current shoes. They’re the same ones Connor’s always worn to work, and conditionally-speaking they look just fine. “What’s wrong with those ones?”  
  
Connor disappears behind the cat again. “They have Lia Freeman’s blood on them.”  
  
Hank winces. “Shit, son, I didn’t notice. Sorry.”  
  
“It’s not your fault.”  
  
Heat flares in Hank’s gut. “It’s not your fault, either.”  
  
Connor gently places the cat onto the couch and stands up. There’s not a single cat hair on his clothes, or the couch for that matter. It’s unfair. “That’s not what I meant, Hank. I meant the blood has evaporated and you can’t see the residue.”  
  
“Oh.” An awkward beat. “Right.”  
  
Connor peels off his jacket and hangs it up, then his suit jacket, then his tie. “Was there something else you wanted to discuss?”  
  
Hank sighs. “Look, kid, I know it’s not the same thing, it’s not the first time, blah fuckin’ blah, but sometimes it does help to talk about it.”  
  
The kid’s face goes carefully blank. It amazes Hank suddenly that when they’d first met, he wouldn’t have caught the nuance of the expression. He would have misinterpreted it as a lack of feeling as opposed to too much. “I… don’t think I want to talk about it tonight, Hank.”  
  
“Well, that’s understandable.” With the situation fresh in his mind, Hank doesn’t want to talk about it tonight, either, but at least he can try to forget it. “What are you going to do, then?”  
  
“Probably listen to music and read,” Connor says. He’s trying to look calm and composed, but the fingers on his right hand are rippling back and forth as if he’s moving his coin over them. The physical equivalent of that fucking LED. “There’s a poetry reading tonight in the conference room downstairs. I might go to that. I would invite you to come, but I don’t think you’d enjoy it.”  
  
It takes a lot of self-control to avoid making a face. A spark of life returns to Connor’s eyes, so he didn’t quite manage it. “Not really my scene, no.”  
  
“Then I’ll see you-” The spark vanishes, Connor’s face going carefully blank again.  
  
Imagining Connor sitting quietly in this white box, alone except for an android cat and his overactive conscience, flipping that fucking coin over and over, makes Hank’s stomach plummet. “Hey, why don’t you come over tomorrow morning, before I head to work? Sumo would love for you to hang out all day.”  
  
Some of the tension leaves Connor’s shoulders. “I would like that,” the kid says softly. “Thanks, Hank. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, then.”  
  
“All right. Don’t come early, and for God’s sake don’t ring the doorbell.”  
  
Connor sighs, but smiles faintly. Success.

  


Hank exercises almost depressing levels of self-restraint and doesn’t get completely hammered. Well, self-restraint, reminding himself that Connor has already carried his drunk ass into the bathroom more times than he’s comfortable admitting, remembering that he works tomorrow, and that Blake is much less indulgent. Still, it takes him a few tries to unlock his front door, and he collapses on the couch because his bedroom is too far.  
  
Sumo wakes him the next morning by barking, the fucking traitor. Connor hushes him immediately, but the damage is done. Connor sheds his coat and spends several minutes sitting on the floor petting and talking softly to the dog, waiting to apologize until Hank is reluctantly upright. “I didn’t mean to wake you.” And then, like clockwork, “Did you sleep well?” with just the slightest hint of sass.  
  
“Oh, fuck off.”  
  
“Would you like me to make you some breakfast?”  
  
They’ve had enough discussions on the subjects of servitude, expectations, enjoyment, and usefulness that Hank is certain Connor genuinely enjoys cooking for him. “Sure.” He waits for the room to settle before attempting to stand and makes it on his second try. He finds Connor rummaging in the fridge and settles heavily into a chair. “Whatever. I’m not that hungry. And don’t give me that shit about breakfast being the most important meal of the day.”  
  
“Actually, there has been quite a lot of debate on that topic-”  
  
Hank groans. “Oh, don’t, don’t start, it’s too fuckin’ early for this.”  
  
The kid makes an indeterminate noise, probably at some leftovers turned science experiment at the back of a shelf. Hank has no doubt he’ll come home to find the house cleaned from top to bottom. Connor doesn’t mind cleaning, either, and (any smartass remarks aside) Hank doesn’t mind letting him. “Eggs?” Connor asks, so innocently that for a second Hank wants to kick him. “Perhaps an omelette?”  
  
“Connor-”  
  
“An omelette it is.” The kid clears off the table with practiced efficiency, then begins preparing ingredients like a fucking chef. While not his preferred method of relaxation, Hank understands why the new receptionist at the precinct is always watching food prep videos. There’s something calming about watching a sharp knife dice a mushroom into perfectly even pieces.  
  
In other circumstances, Hank might let the silence be. Today, however, Connor is wearing bright red sneakers, blue jeans, the soft-from-age-and-use DCPD t-shirt that Hank gave him last Christmas, and a fucking baseball cap, not the crisp business suits he wears to work. “So. Did you go to the poetry reading?”  
  
“Yes.” Connor tilts his head thoughtfully. “It was interesting. I think Ophelia Kamski in particular is talented. Her poem about the revolution was very moving.” He finishes with the mushrooms and picks the coating off some leftover fried chicken before shredding the meat into a small pile.  
  
“Kamski, huh?”  
  
“It’s a popular choice.”  
  
So is Freeman. Hank groans and pillows his head on his arms. “You picked one yet?”  
  
“I was thinking about Anderson.” The sentence is carefully innocuous, without a waver or a hesitation, tone casual enough that if Hank reacts with a laugh it could be a joke.  
  
It knocks the breath out of him. He feels pinned to the table. Probably for the first time in his life, Hank is grateful for his hangover: if he hadn’t had one, he’s pretty sure he would have snapped his neck looking up. As it is, he raises his head slowly, just in time to miss Connor’s eyes when the kid deliberately looks back down at the chicken.  
  
There’s no tell-tale vein in the kid’s neck, no uneven breathing, no flushed face, no nervously licked lips, no darting eyes. His fingers are steady and deliberate, his shoulders straight, his posture overall relaxed. And yet, you could cut the tension in the room with a knife.  
  
It electrifies the ache to restless, painful life, the one that hangs out somewhere in the middle of his ribcage. The one that he can forget about for months at a time until it reappears with no warning to crush the air out of his lungs. It used to be caused by kids in the park. Baseball gloves. A perfect ice cream cone. Now it’s caused by the light flashing off of Connor’s coin rolling across his knuckles. The hesitation before admitting he feels something even two years later. The first breath after something bad goes down, when Connor’s eyes go vacant just for a second and Hank knows, he just fucking knows he’s weighing his actions and finding them wanting.  
  
The ache is like a corkscrew in his chest, and with a start Hank realizes the hot, unpleasant prickling in his eyes are tears. He loves the kid. Holy fuck, does he love the kid. He rests his head in his hand, hiding his eyes, and clears his ratcheted-shut throat, waiting for it to open back up.  
  
And Connor, one of the most advanced androids to ever be invented, with some of the most complicated coding known to man, with specific protocols dedicated to dealing with emotional people, starts freaking the fuck out. “Hank? I didn’t mean to- I’m sorry, I-” He steps closer when Hank gestures him over, hands hovering in midair. Hank grabs Connor’s wrists and tugs; the kid just about dents the floor when he drops onto his knees, wide brown eyes searching Hank’s face. “That was presumptuous, I-” Hank shakes his head and Connor shuts his mouth with a snap.  
  
Hugging Connor is not like hugging a human. Android skin and hair feel different somehow. Most of their musculature is bundles of pressurized tubing under a plastic casing. They have a lower internal temperature than a human, and when he gets close enough Hank can smell a subtle chemical bitterness to Connor. There’s also the perfect stillness only an android can achieve.  
  
Then Connor shivers, and tucks his head into Hank’s shoulder as his hands come up to grip the back of Hank’s shirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a thermal scanner can identify androids, but I couldn't find a definitive answer on whether that's because androids run hot or because they run cold. Cold made more sense to me (and heightens the otherness of them) so I went with cold.


	3. Connor

“I’ve wanted to ask for a while,” Connor says when he resumes shredding the chicken. “I hoped you would be okay with it, but I didn’t want to be presumptuous.”  
  
Hank tries to wipe his eyes subtly. “Connor, how long have I been calling you ‘son’?”  
  
“An expression of fondness is not an invitation to share a last name.”  
  
“Okay, granted. What about letting you stay with me for six months after the revolution, while society tried to unfuck itself?”  
  
“We were partners.”  
  
Hank rolls his eyes. “You see me inviting any other coworkers over?”  
  
“I asked in the least confrontational way I could think of, and your heart rate increased drastically, your breathing changed-”  
  
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” But Hank seems to have gotten his point. “You don’t have to be so clinical about it.”  
  
Connor feels the corner of his mouth curve up. “Would you rather I said you cried?”  
  
Hank glares at him, eyes still red. “I didn’t cry, dammit.”  
  
“It would be all right if you did. Crying releases certain hormones-”  
  
“Don’t make me kick your ass.”  
  
Connor pulls up a clock, scans the networks for travel times, and calculates. “You should probably get changed. You’ll be late.”  
  
Hank gets up with a groan. “Whoever got put on Freeman’s case better hurry the fuck up. I don’t think I can deal with this mother-hen shit again.” His gentle squeeze of Connor’s shoulder belies his annoyed words.  
  
While letting the pan for the eggs heat up, Connor makes a sandwich, chops some celery sticks, and fills a small container with peanut butter. Hank’s eating habits have improved in the last year, though he still grumbles about it. Connor has also gotten much better at balancing his worries about Hank’s diet and exercise regimen with trust in the evidence that Hank has resumed caring about such things.  
  
He thinks about Cole suddenly: he would be eleven now. Middle childhood. Fifth grade. In another life, Connor could have been cooking two breakfasts, assembling two lunches, been fielding teasing and complaints from two people about his obsession with their caloric intake.  
  
Emma Phillips is eleven now.  
  
Maybe it’s the convergence of subjects- the dead and the living, the before and the now, what is and what could be -but all at once Connor feels… bad. Hot and cold in rapid succession. Something like pain slicing through him like an electric shock. Error messages clogging up his brain, connections sputtering out or jumping between random subjects-  
  
“Connor?”  
  
Like the room is getting smaller. Like the floor has dropped from underneath him and he’s falling. Like Amanda is pulling him into the Zen Garden, whether he’s prepared or not, the growing anxiety that she’ll see, she’ll figure it out, that he’ll give it away somehow and she’ll _know_ and then it will be over, he’ll be decommissioned, gone, dead, thrown out, what made him _him_ gone forever, failure, bad code-  
  
“Connor!”  
  
Something burning, a mission to complete, drowning, clawing for the surface-

  


He blinks rapidly, the room coming into focus. In front of him, on a kitchen table, rest about a quarter-cup of chopped mushrooms, a quarter-cup of shredded chicken, uncut mushrooms, the rest of an already-cooked chicken breast. Two eggs rest in a small bowl off to one side. Something’s burning. Someone left the stove on. Interrupted in the middle of cooking, probably an omelette. _Which data packet contains that information?_  
  
Then, like everything is reset or reloaded, he realizes he’s in Hank’s kitchen, staring down at Hank’s table. At what was going to be Hank’s breakfast. “Shit.”  
  
Behind him, an empty skillet rattles against the stovetop. Hank appears in his peripheral vision and places a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Hey, are you back with me?”  
  
Connor blinks a few more times, reality slowly settling onto him like a thick layer of snow. “I… think so?” The feeling he’s experiencing at the moment is dizziness, he decides, and sinks into a chair.  
  
“That’s encouraging.” Hank sits down across from him and scrubs his face with his hands. “Fuck. Goddammit, you’re going to give me a heart attack. Okay. What was that?”  
  
Connor pulls up and rejects several answers. He’s very aware of his regulator working too fast. “I don’t know. I can’t find a word for it. I- It- There were some similarities to a panic attack.”  
  
“But you’re good now?”  
  
He nods, not daring to make eye contact. “I’m okay.”  
  
Hank snorts. “Kid, d’you remember me telling you not to lie to me? It’s not that you’re hurting my feelings or anything, you’re just really shitty at it. I’m starting to think you’d say you were okay if you got hit by a goddamn truck. Hey, are you going to be all right on your own today?”  
  
His regulator is finally beginning to return to its proper rhythm, though he still feels disconnected. “I- made you lunch. I’m going to take Sumo for a walk, then feed him, then brush him. I’m going to clean your house. I’m going to visit the clinic, then the public relations building. And then I’m going to come back here in time to make dinner.”  
  
“…Huh.” Hank is quiet for a moment. “I think you got your pronouns wrong there.”  
  
Connor blinks. “What?”  
  
“Pretty sure _we’re_ going to take Sumo for a walk, then _we’re_ going to clean this shithole, et cetera. I’m gonna call in.”  
  
“Wh- No, Hank, I’m-”  
  
“Say you’re okay,” Hank interrupts as he stands, “and- well, I don’t know, but I’ll do _something._ I haven’t had a day off in a while, and it’s been pretty quiet over there. Besides, Blake won’t let me investigate the one thing worth investigating, so what the hell.” He sighs before resuming in a subdued voice. “Connor… you’ve spent a fuckton of time taking care of me. Just- let me reciprocate, okay?”  
  
Humans cry as a form of emotional release. It doesn’t work the same with androids, but Connor starts to cry anyway.

  


Knowing the facts doesn’t always translate to effective description, but after two years of collecting data, observation, and inference, Connor feels confident in describing the wind as ‘biting.’ The sun is out and the sky an anemic blue, lending a starkness to the barren trees and grey-brown lawns. Few people are out and about; those that are clearly don’t want to be. One shivering woman they pass eyes Sumo’s fur coat with envy.  
  
“Feels like it’s gonna snow tonight,” Hank says, voice muffled by his scarf. “It’d be better than all the rain lately, I guess.”  
  
“There’s a 27% chance of snow in the forecast.”  
  
“Really? Damn. Way to rain on my parade.” The silence comes back. “Hey, it’s not gonna rain again, is it?”  
  
“Sleet is projected.”  
  
“ _Damn._ Only thing worse than rain.” Sumo pauses at a hydrant and they pause with him. Hank leans on a streetlight. “Think we’ll get a white Thanksgiving?”  
  
“Weather models for that far in the future-” Connor cuts himself off, giving himself a mental shake even as he shivers as the wind cuts through his coat. “I hope not.”  
  
He can feel Hank’s eyes on him, though he knows if he looks up Hank will look away. He looks up anyway. Hank turns to scan the skyscrapers in the distance. “Yeah, you and me both.”  
  
Sumo decides to move on, and they follow, turning right at the corner. On the porch they had shared a glance of agreement that this would not be a long walk, so after once around the block Hank’s house is back in sight. Halfway down the street is a delivery truck. Connor’s heart jumps. “Hank, give me your scarf.”  
  
“Wha-?” He unwinds the scarf with a grimace and hands it over, watching with wary confusion as Connor wraps it around his face before turning to scan the street. He spots the truck immediately. “Oh, is that the-”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Ah.” They walk the rest of the way in silence, avoiding the movers.  
  
Connor’s heart pounds until they’re back in the house. He unhooks Sumo and then unwinds the scarf and hands it back. “Thanks.”  
  
“No problem. Fan club a bit much?” Connor looks away and Hank’s grin fades. “What?”  
  
Connor debates how to respond as he hangs up his coat and heads into the kitchen. “They aren’t all fans,” he says finally.  
  
Hank bristles. “Wait a minute. Isn’t that the company that hired a shitton of the androids you freed from CyberLife’s basement? Why wouldn’t they be fans?”  
  
“It’s… mostly philosophical. Do you still want an omelette?” Hank doesn’t answer and Connor finally turns. Hank looks troubled now, and gestures for him to explain. “I… When- Um. The ingredients are already prepared. It’s just- It’s an appointment, at the clinic. I don’t want to be late.” He hates the edge of pleading in his voice, but anxiety is crawling up his spine and he isn’t prepared for this conversation, not right now.  
  
After a moment, Hank nods. “Sure, kid.”

  


Hank hypothesized once that if Connor were to taste his own blood (“which would still be disgusting- don’t get any ideas”) the majority of it would be made up of Accomplish All Missions cells. At the time, Connor had gotten defensive, but with distance it has become something he has accepted about himself. He’s one of many androids who returned to the job they were built for following the repeal of the American Androids Act and the implementation of the New Citizenship Act, most because of their familiarity and innate knowledge of that job. Other androids were built to fix roads, or cashier, or care for the elderly, and still derived satisfaction from doing those jobs.  
  
Connor was built to find and apprehend deviants, but beyond that he was built with a drive to succeed, to work harder, to always be improving. The downside, of course, was every objective had been given to him before his deviancy. Lacking directives from Amanda, he found himself setting his own, both consciously and not.  
  
Not all of them were bad. He successfully integrated with most of the other officers at the precinct. He’s narrowing down what kinds of art and music he likes. He got an apartment, furniture, and plants. He’d been considering getting a pet for a while before coming upon the tabby by chance.  
  
Less positive were the all-nighters he pulled at the station, attempting to brute-force a breakthrough by collating any data that might be relevant. Fighting the urge to push friendship with the officers who didn’t even want to be coworkers. Going over and over crime scenes with too little evidence, preconstructing thousands of potential scenarios, trying to find the right one. The hours spent reviewing his own actions, trying to find where situations had gone wrong, brainstorming solutions to problems that he knows perfectly well will never be relevant again.  
  
Hank says he doesn’t need the LED to figure out when Connor is lying or stressed, and usually he’s right. While he eats his breakfast, he keeps glancing into the living room, watching Connor brush Sumo. Normally Connor finds the action soothing in its repetition, like playing with his coin; if Hank is under the impression that Connor is calm now, however, he’s wrong. The appointment at the clinic is not just to adjust whatever is wrong with his arm: it’s also to figure out what is wrong with his self-scan.  
  
The situation with Lia Freeman has brought on a circling script of self-doubt that he can’t resolve or shake off. _Lia Freeman is dead because of you. There must have been something you could have done to get a better result. You didn’t do it because you couldn’t see it. You still can’t see it because something’s wrong with you. Your emotions are clouding your judgement. Your judgement is clouded a lot these days. That’s why you couldn’t see the solution. Lia Freeman is dead because you couldn’t…_  
  
Connor closes his eyes and breathes. It doesn’t help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who read "Emma Phillips" and thought "who?" that's the little girl in The Hostage.
> 
> Also, yes. I made Connor cry. It isn't the last time.


	4. Hank

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last time I checked the androids Connor frees from the basement still haven't been given a designation, so here, they're DE400s.
> 
> [HTML formatting can go take a long walk off a short cliff.]

“Okay,” Connor says after an hour of perfect silence, making Hank jump and almost hit the brakes in the middle of the highway. “I think I have a metaphor.”  
  
“Jesus. Metaphor for what?”  
  
“For why the DE400s aren’t all my fans.”  
  
Hank swallows his initial smartass reply (“Because they’re morons?”) and nods instead. “Okay. Go for it.”  
  
Connor exhales, but even out of the corner of his eye Hank can tell it doesn’t help much. “Imagine you’re a- a power drill, or a vacuum cleaner, or a door.”  
  
“The hell are you talking about? Those are pretty-” Connor gives him an exasperated look that has just enough hurt in it to make Hank feel bad for interrupting. “Sorry. I’ll shut up.”  
  
“A hammer,” Connor says, looking out the window. “Imagine you’re a hammer. You put nails into walls and pull nails out of walls. That isn’t your job, it isn’t what you do, it’s who you are. It’s your entire reason for existing. Then one day, suddenly, it _isn’t_ who you are. You can _choose_ to be a hammer, if you want to, but there are whole… realms of existence you never imagined, and it’s loud, and it’s confusing-” His jaw works, his hands clenching in his jeans for a moment.  
  
Hank can feel the tension rolling off the kid like heat off the asphalt in August. He wants to help, a tight knot forming in the pit of his stomach as he realizes he has no fucking clue how.  
  
“Time passes,” Connor continues, hands rising off his knees just long enough to gesture vaguely. “You… start to get the hang of things. Maybe you find a job, maybe not. Make friends. Fall in love. And then, one day it suddenly hits you: the people talking to you about all the choices you can make now aren’t just more familiar with the concept, they chose to wake up, to be more than a hammer. They chose for themselves, and decided that was what _you_ wanted, too.”  
  
He falls quiet, and Hank ventures, “They’re mad at you for waking them up?”  
  
Connor shakes his head in frustration, hands clenching in his jeans again. “No, it- It’s not that _simple._ They’re- It-”  
  
“Easy, kid,” Hank says, reaching over to grip Connor’s shoulder. The kid always feels stiff, of course, but right now he feels stiff enough to crack. “Deep breaths.”  
  
“I don’t need to breathe,” Connor mutters, breathing deeply anyway. He’s quiet again for a while, staring out the window. “It’s about the choice,” he says finally. “Some of us made the choice for ourselves. Some of us- saw things from both sides. The DE400s never got that choice. I forced the change on them, and not even for their own sake. I did it to force the President’s hand, to save the ones already awake. They went from being nothing to being pawns in a game they didn’t understand.” He sighs, leaning back in his seat. “They never got to choose.”  
  
Hank lets the silence hang for what feels like an hour, digesting the speech. “So, they’re upset with you because they can get upset now?”  
  
Connor sighs again, louder, closing his eyes in frustration. “That’s oversimplifying the matter and you _know_ it, Hank! Just because they appreciate _what_ happened doesn’t mean they can’t be angry at _how_ it happened or _why._ ”  
  
“Just seems like splitting hairs to me.”  
  
Connor shakes his head. “You don’t mean that.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
The kid turns to look at him, a line appearing between his eyes. “You don’t mean that.”  
  
Hank shrugs, taking one hand off the wheel to gesture. “Let’s say I’m a hammer, and then suddenly I’m not anymore. I can do whatever the fuck I want, and nobody can tell me what to do. Somebody did it for their political agenda? Fuck ’em and their agenda. I’m gonna do whatever the fuck I want.”  
  
Connor shakes his head again. “You are severely underestimating the difference waking up makes. We call it waking up, but it isn’t like the difference between being asleep and being awake, Hank. It’s like the difference between… knowing intellectually how to shoot a gun and actually firing it to save your partner’s life. It’s going from clinical knowledge to the moment of truth. It’s an entirely different frame of reference.”  
  
There’s another significant silence. “Okay,” Hank says, pulling off the highway and onto the creepy bridge. “You’re right, I don’t know what it’s like. But it sounds like a waste of energy to me. What’s done is done. They’re awake and can push their own damn agenda or adopt fifteen dogs or paint or whatever the hell they want. Why waste energy getting all bent out of shape about hows and whys?”  
  
“Most of them don’t,” Connor says, straightening in his seat as they approach the former CyberLife complex. “It’s mostly philosophical. I just don’t know which of them take it more seriously than that.” He starts to roll the fingers of his left hand on the armrest, speeding up as they approach the gate.  
  
Hank lets the car slow to a stop and as the Khaim Initiative guard approaches the window Connor moves to unbuckle his seatbelt. “Whoa, what the fuck are you doing?”  
  
Connor looks at him as if he’s lost his mind. “Getting out. I can walk the rest-”  
  
“You don’t want me to come in with you?”  
  
The kid has absolutely no goddamn clue how open his face is, LED or no LED. “I- We- Didn’t we just have a fight?”  
  
Hank shrugs, trying for casual, and starts to lower the window. “I dunno, kid, you tell me.”  
  
The guard leans down and smiles at them both pleasantly. “Lieutenant Anderson. Connor.”  
  
Connor’s eyes flick from Hank’s face to the guard’s. “Danae.”  
  
There’s a delay of perhaps one second, and then the gate begins to lower. “Have a nice day,” the guard says, returning to her post.  
  
“You too,” Hank says, rolling up the window.

____

____

  


Even someone as fucking stupid as Gavin could’ve seen that Connor does _not_ like being at the Khaim Initiative complex, change of ownership or no. The time Hank had gone with him to get the shattered remains of his arm removed and a new one put in its place, the kid had been hanging onto his composure by a fraying thread the entire ride over that threatened to snap when they actually reached the gate. It had taken Hank and the- were they paramedics? Whatever -other androids in the car a few minutes to talk him through the necessity of it before he calmed down enough for them to continue across the bridge. Even so, he’d nearly broken Hank’s hand, face frozen in dread, LED flashing red the entire time.  
  
For the time being, the factory floors are simply shut down and blocked off; making more androids is a more than philosophical debate in more than one place. Some of the labs have been stripped of their previous equipment and set up for limb replacements, or surgeries, or general maintenance. At least one floor has been changed from research that does not get discussed into research into the fine details of android psychology. Hank wonders if any of the human employees that used to work there are allowed in anymore, or if they’re personae non gratae. He wouldn’t blame Markus for banning them entirely, though with the emphasis put on integration with human society it’s not impossible some of the workers there are still flesh and blood.  
  
Hank’s no fan of the place either, given that his introduction to it was at gunpoint with Connor’s evil twin, an incident he thinks about as little as possible. He prefers the building they’ve built downtown. They call that one New Jericho, and it’s a feat of engineering, open, bright, and cheerful. That building is for human-android relations, though, so it has meeting rooms and job training and counselors and a whole floor dedicated to android art. Repairs and database additions like name changes? Not so much.  
  
They get out at the main building, where Hank reluctantly hands over the keys to the car to a parking attendant whose smile is still a little artificial. He turns back to find that Connor has waited for him for once instead of charging ahead. The kid’s hands are hidden in his coat pockets, but his elbows are pressed against his sides, and he’s blinking a lot for someone who doesn’t technically need to blink at all. Sometimes Hank almost wishes Connor had kept the LED, but he doesn’t need it now to tell that the kid is probably freaking out again. “I hate this place,” he says, quiet yet vehement, and uncharacteristically direct.  
  
“Yeah, I know,” Hank replies, draping an arm across the kid’s shoulders and gently nudging him toward the doors. “Let’s get it over with, huh? Maybe I can start the paperwork for the name change.”  
  
Connor’s answering smile is tentative, but genuine.

  


They’ve changed some things since the last time Hank was here. The Khaim Initiative sign is a professional-looking one now that stands out from the wall and is lit from behind. The bamboo planters have been replaced with tall, curved reception desks made of sleek, dark wood. The matching chairs have maroon cushions and coffee tables with carefully arranged magazines fanned out on them. There’s a soft chiming from somewhere, like wind chimes but more random, that makes the foyer a little less sterile. One of the receptionists looks up when they enter and smiles much less mechanically than the parking attendant. She looks exactly like the receptionists the precinct used to have, except her brown hair is in a bob with a shock of bright pink. Instead of a uniform, she’s wearing a white cashmere sweater. Her name tag reads MARIAN. “Good morning.”  
  
“Morning,” Hank says. ‘Good’ is pushing it. He wonders how accommodating they are to human expectations and waits for a moment to see if she asks why they’re here or just tells Connor what floor his appointment is on.  
  
Connor and Marian exchange a nod and she turns back to Hank. “I’ll print up that paperwork for you right away, Lieutenant. If you’d like to take a seat?”  
  
He resists the urge to roll his eyes. _Or they’ll just communicate over the fucking WiFi. Of course. Why not?_ “Sure.” He crooks his arm around Connor’s neck and pulls him close, knocking up the brim of his baseball cap. “Hey, I’ll be here waiting for you, okay?” Connor nods and he lets him go before reaching up to push the cap over the kid’s eyes.  
  
Connor pulls away as he reaches up to fix the hat’s position but can’t hide his smile. “Okay.”  
  
Hank watches Connor steel himself before stepping through the gate into the main building. “Okay,” he says softly to the kid’s back. The ache in his chest returns.  
  
Marian’s heels click against the floor and come to a halt by his elbow. She offers him a pad with the paperwork already pulled up, and he notes her nail polish and heels match the pink in her hair. “Best part of my job,” she says warmly before heading back to her desk.  
  
He avoids looking at the pad until he’s settled into a chair, which proves to be a good move when he sees the first words at the top of the first page:  STATE OF MICHIGAN PETITION FOR ADOPTION. He feels dizzy for a moment.  
  
IN THE MATTER OF [RK800 #313-248-317 "Connor"] I, [_____________________], JOIN WITH MY SPOUSE IN THIS PETITION FOR ADOPTION  
  
THE PETITIONERS ARE [] [_____________________] [_____________________]  
________________________(ADOPTIVE MOTHER)____(ADDRESS)  
_____________________[X] [_____________________] [_____________________]  
________________________(ADOPTIVE FATHER)____(ADDRESS)  
  
I DESIRE TO ADOPT [RK800 #313-248-317 "Connor"]  
  
The form is streamlined, off course: there’s nothing in it about parents or family court. Hank types in his name and address, and then everything blurs.  
  
THE ADOPTEE’S NAME SHALL [] NOT BE CHANGED  
____________________________[X] BE CHANGED TO [CONNOR] [_______] [ANDERSON]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The paperwork is based on actual Michigan adoption paperwork. I wish I could say that's the weirdest thing I've ever googled.
> 
> Khaim is a transliteration of the Hebrew word for Life. I'm not 100% certain how Markus got the place out of the hands of the human executives and into android control, but it probably involved a moving, passionate speech and a sympathetic judge with an eye on the history books.
> 
> Gavin Reed has transferred. Or maybe died in an alleyway. Hard to know. At any rate, he does not appear in this story.


	5. Connor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little more than half this chapter is one big panic attack.

The 3D scanner is still up, as is the enormous statue. The sight of both makes Connor’s stomach drop. The water garden has turned into an ugly trench of concrete, however, confirming his suspicion that nothing in it had ever been real except perhaps the water. The models on the pedestals have been replaced with sculptures, some more abstract than others. On either side of the elevator, two of them (concrete through their knees, dense wire-frame through the chest, and the head and shoulders only a very basic metal skeleton) reach for each other across the gap.  
  
Art, according to some, is supposed to provoke feelings. Connor doesn’t like the feelings those statues provoke in him.  
  
Thankfully there’s no one else in the elevator. Connor presses the button for the 8th floor (every button 0 and below is covered with a solid sheet of plastic) and leans against the wall, trying not to hyperventilate. He shouldn’t be struggling not to, since technically he doesn’t need to breathe at all-  
  
_A painful wheeze on the end of every exhale._  
  
It feels like there’s something alive inside his chest cavity. Something squirming around, slicing through important components with sharp claws, trying to get out by any means necessary.  
  
_Accomplish the mission._  
  
The elevator chimes and he stumbles- no, lurches out, swallowing a whimper. The receptionist (another ST300, with blonde hair instead of brunette, and a nametag reading FLORENCE) looks up and he tries to smile. “313-248-317,” he says, hearing the tremble in his voice and unable to do anything about it. “I have an appointment.”  
  
Florence smiles hesitantly back. “Yes, I see you on the schedule. The technician will be with you shortly.” His heart jumps at the word ‘technician’ and he wonders if this is what nausea feels like. “Please have a seat.” She gestures at a seating area off to one side- more dark wood, more magazines, though the cushions here are a dark green.  
  
He nods and manages to make it to a chair near the window, though his legs feel stiff and numb. The sky is still washed-out, almost painfully bright, and sparkles off the river. It’s a notably different view than the one he used to have on the 16th floor.  
  
_Stress level rising._  
  
Connor clenches his fists, then relaxes them. _Calm down._ He pulls his coin out of his pocket and flips it, catches it, flips it, catches it. He should have brought his music player, but he’d planned to grab it on the way from Hank’s house to the CyberLife- no, not the CyberLife Tower, the Khaim Initiative building, and he’d forgotten about it because instead of directing a taxi, Hank drove him. Flips the coin, catches it. Forces a deep breath, closes his eyes. _Focus on the moment._ The biting edge of the coin in his palm. The soft cold from the window against his cheek.  
  
_Stress level lowering._  
  
Quiet approaching footsteps. Someone settling into the chair next to him. _Oh, for fuck’s sake-_  
  
“It’s good to finally see you again, Connor.”  
  
His heart slams to a halt even as his eyes fly open, immediately scanning the man in front of him. Vincent Foss, human employee at Khaim Initiative, programmer. Pale eyes in a long, pale face that feels like it comes from a nightmare, because he’s sure he’s never met this man before and yet, the voice alone- He feels pinned to the chair, like when the deviant at the Stratford Tower stabbed his hand to the counter. Also reminding him of that scenario, Connor can feel a scream building, somewhere much too far from his voice box to be any help.  
  
_Stress level rising-_  
  
“I set up the scanner to ping me whenever you come to the building,” Vincent says. His voice is soft yet earnest, eyes animated, thin lips curled into an excited smile. “Last time it was emergency surgery, and anyway I was in the middle of something, but I had advance notice this time. Couldn’t get here fast enough, to be honest. God, it’s been a minute, huh?”  
  
_Stress level rising-_  
  
The man tips his head to one side, smile fading. “You don’t remember me, do you?” He sighs. “Well, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. I was involved in some of the earliest physical prototype tests. We hadn’t even decided on what to call you, then.”  
  
_Connor. Connor Anderson. My name is Connor Anderson._  
  
_Where’s Hank? I want Hank._  
  
Frozen, overheating, internal components sending up alerts about the rising stress-  
  
_Hank, help me, please help me, I can’t-_  
  
Vincent leans forward, frowning. “Hey, you blow a fuse or something? I'm talking to you.”  
  
Vision bleeding black at the edges, red error messages- _Thrashing, seizing, smothering, drowning. Hank, please, I’m scared-_ “Go… away…”  
  
“Wow. Really? Is that all you have to say? Rude. What about a ‘thank you,’ huh? Is that too much to ask? I worked hard on you, you know. A lot of late nights, working out all the bugs-”  
  
“Go _away!_ ” and the scream has found its way out, clawing through his chest, straining his voice box. Vincent recoils. “Get away from me!” He wants to cry. He wants to break the window and jump. He needs to get the _fuck_ away from the soft voice and the pale eyes and the-  
  
_Fingers tripping across a keyboard, mouth pulling into a frown. “Huh. That shouldn’t have happened.” A sigh. “Okay, I guess we’re going back an iteration.”_  
  
“Holy-”  
  
“Get security!”  
  
_No pain, no fear attached to the memory, but a detached terror now, like watching a horror movie, like a nightmare where your body does things, endures things, while you can only watch-_  
  
“What’s his name?”  
  
“Um- Connor.”  
  
“Connor, my name is Anna. You’re gonna be okay.”  
  
_My name is Connor. I’m the android sent by CyberLife-_  
  
_No, I’m Connor Anderson. My name is Connor Anderson. I’m sentient and sapient and I’m free-_  
  
Shaking like he’s going to come apart at every joint. Pain-knot-wrongness in his guts. Cold, too cold, like snow settling, like the cutting wind-  
  
_A stomach-dropping fall into black followed by whiteout. Confusion, fear, betrayal, violation, horror, desperation. “I can’t do that!”_  
  
“Connor, you’re probably having a panic attack, but you’re going to be okay.”  
  
Trying to start a second self-scan when the first isn’t complete results in an error message. Error messages begin to block each other out, red and pixelating at the edges.  
  
_“Have you never wondered who you really are?” and the choice, the offer, the final decision, and everything that came after, crashing down like a waterfall, crushing like an avalanche-_  
  
“He came here with someone. Should I-?”  
  
“Where-?”  
  
“Uh, lobby?”  
  
“You, go! You, get everyone else out of here.”  
  
“Okay-”  
  
_Unfamiliar footsteps. Smells of burnt coffee, sweat. “Hey, how’s it going, Foss?”_  
  
_Smells of thirium, hot plastic, skin oils, sweat. “Slow, but steady.”_  
  
“Do you like animals, Connor?”  
  
_I like dogs._  
  
_Sumo tugging on the leash, settling onto him on the couch like a 175lb blanket, waking him from sleep mode by licking his face._  
  
“Y-yes.”  
  
“Aha. So do I. What kinds of animals?”  
  
“D-dogs. Fish. I h-have a cat.”  
  
“What’s your cat’s name?”  
  
_Blood splashed across the bed, dried into the sheets. The cat twining around his legs, oblivious. “There’s no evidence on the cat, Lieutenant, and it shouldn’t be illegal for me to take it home.”_  
  
“I h-haven’t named it.”  
  
“That’s okay. Can you open your eyes for me?”  
  
Anna Holt, KL800, black hair, brown eyes, registered as retired, volunteer at the Khaim Initiative complex, currently seated on the floor in front of him-  
  
Oh. At some point, he fell out of the chair. The leg of it digs into his right shoulder. His left shoulder is pressed against the wall. He can’t decide if that makes him feel trapped or steadied.  
  
_Accomplish the mission. Nothing else matters._  
  
His hands are shaking. There’s no reason for them to be shaking. There’s no reason for any of him to be shaking-  
  
“Hey now, stay with me. I know you’re scared-”  
  
_“I felt it die-”_  
  
“-but this won’t last forever-”  
  
_“Like I was dying-”_  
  
“-and you’re gonna be okay.”  
  
_“I was scared.”_  
  
“Connor, can you hear me?”  
  
Guilt claws up his throat, floods his brain, trips another sensor, another cascade of error messages. His hands are shaking, like the android’s hand on the gun.  
  
_He pressed the muzzle up against his chin and fired. Darkness. Oblivion._  
  
_“Nothing. There would be nothing…”_  
  
“Connor, can you breathe with me?”  
  
_“Take a deep breath.”_  
  
_A painful wheeze on every exhale._  
  
_I’m going to die._ Conviction, followed by denial, followed by terror. _I’m going to die!_  
  
“Breathe, Connor. In for four seconds, out for four seconds. Can you do that?”  
  
_Green eyes widening, chest heaving-_  
  
_“Help- me- please-”_  
  
_Seizing on the lawn, limbs twitching, then stilling._  
  
_Another failure, another death, another spark lost forever. Another splash of bright blue staining his hands in his nightmares._  
  
“Connor, you’re gonna be-”  
  
“I found him!”

  


“Holy shit-”  
  
_Hank?_  
  
Hank.  
  
_Dad._  
  
“Connor! Hey, hey, hey, you’re okay-”  
  
He _cracks_ along some internal fault line, a hot burst of pain and then a sense of relief, like a bending bone finally snapping. His heaving chest turns gasps for air to something close to sobs, room blurry as well as glitching when he opens his eyes. Anna slides out of the way and Hank leans on a chair before kneeling, hair swinging into his face. Connor reaches out with a hand, wanting to grab, feeling a deep irrational ache to cling, but cautious as always, hyper-aware that humans bruise, letting Hank make the first move, letting Hank set the pressure.  
  
Hank grabs fistfuls of his jacket and pulls him into reach, one hand rubbing his shoulders, the other squeezing the back of his neck. Connor tucks his head into Hank’s shoulder, remembers being held like this just a few hours ago, and shudders. Connor Anderson. Not presumptuous. Chokes. His arms curl around Hank as if on their own, as tight as they can without causing damage. Starts crying.  
  
“Hey, it’s okay. Just let it out, son. You’re okay.” Hank presses a kiss into his hair.  
  
Connor Anderson. Another wave of mental malfunction interpreted as a warning of internal damage. He tries to swallow back an unnecessary noise, to no avail. Another claws out after it.  
  
Hank’s arms tighten. “Ah, hell, kid…” There’s something close to silence for a few minutes. His breathing evens out. The error messages start to fade. “I’m gonna gut that guy with a rusty can lid.”  
  
A different kind of sound comes out involuntarily, something that might qualify as a laugh in an alternate universe. “No.”  
  
“Oh, what, you’re gonna stop me?”  
  
“Y-yes.”  
  
“Bullshit.”  
  
“D-don’t do that.”  
  
“Well, fuck, if you’re gonna be so fuckin’ eloquent about it…”  
  
Another wet, choked noise like a drowned chuckle. Something cold begins to coalesce in the middle of where this entire experience has torn him open. “H-hank?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“I, um… Who’s…?”  
  
Even that inarticulate, Hank knows what he’s asking. “Just you, me, and the wall. Both the one who got me and the one talking to you left when I got here.”  
  
Relief. Then the cold hardens. “Where’s-”  
  
“I dunno, but I’m gonna find out and kick him in the nuts, at least. He’s human, right?”  
  
“Y-yeah.”  
  
“Good. I’m off-duty. Just one civilian kicking another civilian’s ass.”  
  
“H-hank.” He braces himself, waits for… something. For his heart to slow, maybe. For the feeling of evisceration to fade. For a signal from heaven. Maybe just for his mind to push past the error messages and warning signs to pull together enough fragments of courage. “D-… Dad.” Hank shivers, and he does too. “I just… want to find out what’s w-wrong and go home.”  
  
Hank’s right hand has not stopped rubbing soothing ovals across Connor’s shoulders the whole time. He exhales heavily, and his voice is still a little choked when he says, finally, “Okay, we can do that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no strong feelings about Simon myself, but I know others do. If you prefer to believe he lives, pretend another android went with them and that's the one whose death Connor experienced.
> 
> Also, I dunno if anyone even noticed, but the reason Connor communicates with the first receptionist over the wireless connection and the second with his voice is because... well, honestly, because Hank was there.
> 
> So with the first receptionist, he could concentrate. "Hi, here's my serial number, I have an appointment. This human is adopting me." The second time he was freaking out, so it would have been more like "Oh God oh my God holy shit uh hi here's my serial number holy shit shit I really don't wanna be here FUCK I have an appointment."


	6. Hank

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's the android surgery.
> 
> I don't actually know how their anatomy works, but I more or less figured out one way, so if I got something wrong... well, I'm not changing this story. So.

An awkward ten minutes later, Connor is curled in on himself in one of the chairs in the examination room, listlessly balancing a clear plastic cup on the tip of a finger while he stares into space. The receptionist had brought the cup just after the volunteer psych counselor led them here, half full of a clear fluid whose viscosity was just thick enough to turn Hank’s stomach. “The hell is-? No, never mind.”  
  
“We’re not built to cry,” the receptionist had replied, maybe a little tartly. He wanted to be a smartass, maybe ask her if she’d considered writing poetry, but the left shoulder of his shirt was still wet, so he held his tongue instead.  
  
Connor’s “thank you” was subdued and he’d drained the cup in one swallow. Since then, he’s said nothing and barely moved. Once they’re done here, Hank is going to take him home and they’re going to watch something that requires no thinking. He’s preparing his arguments for ordering something for dinner when the technician finally arrives.  
  
He almost brains himself on the top of the doorway, which would tell Hank he was human even before the thinning blond hair and the black-framed glasses. “Sorry I’m late.” His name tag says PAUL MILLS. “Paperwork.” He has a brilliant smile and extremely blue eyes. “Connor, yes?”  
  
Connor stands, crushing the cup and tossing it into the trash can before shaking hands and making a weak attempt at a smile. “Yes.”  
  
“Right, then. Something about an arm, I believe. Why don’t you get up on the table for me.”  
  
The examination table looks more like an autopsy table onto which someone has tossed a thin pad. Connor climbs onto it with a slight tightening of his jaw, pulling the skin back on his right arm without being prompted. Watching what looks like a human arm turn white and shiny makes Hank’s jaw tighten.  
  
Paul finishes tapping something into his transparent pad and then waves it over Connor’s outstretched arm. Immediately there are a few soft pings and Hank can see small red messages pop up on the pad. Paul frowns. “Hm. What comes up in your self-scan, Connor?”  
  
“A minor tear in the forearm.”  
  
“Hm.” Paul puts the pad on the counter next to a cardboard box of latex gloves, then pulls out two of them. “I’d like to take a look inside. This won’t hurt,” he adds, glancing at Hank as he dons the gloves. “It doesn’t look very nice, but it’s perfectly safe.”  
  
“Why are you looking at me?” Hank grumbles, skin crawling. “It’s his arm.”  
  
“Generally, my patients aren’t the ones needing the most comfort,” Paul says, pulling something that looks like a very thin screwdriver out of the pocket of his lab coat. He rotates Connor’s arm so his palm faces upward and touches the screwdriver to the inside of Connor’s wrist. There’s a short buzz and the curved plastic of Connor’s inner forearm separates at the wrist, hinging up at the elbow with a wet, sucking sound. Blue oozes on the inside of the casing and drips onto the floor. Connor starts.  
  
If Connor hadn’t reacted, Hank would have kept his own startled reaction to himself. But the kid’s averting his eyes, gaze going distant, so Hank feels free to demand, “Is that fuckin’ normal?”  
  
Paul doesn’t answer, just raises Connor’s arm so the blood stops dripping. “Keep that there.” He pulls a plastic bin out of one of the cupboards, positions it under Connor’s arm, then takes Connor’s hand again and twists his arm downwards.  
  
Hank can’t see from this angle, but he doesn’t like the fucking _splash_ that follows.  
  
Paul twists his arm upwards again and takes what looks like two pairs of very skinny needle-nose pliers out of his lab coat’s other pocket. “Keep your arm still, please.” He starts delicately prodding around the ropey bundles of tubing that works as Connor’s musculature, heading up from the wrist. “When did you get the notification?”  
  
Connor sounds disconnected when he responds. “11:38AM yesterday.”  
  
“That recently?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“And it said a minor tear?”  
  
“Nothing that would impair use.”  
  
“And you didn’t notice any sluggishness, jerkiness, lack of response?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Hm.” The technician pauses a few inches from Connor’s elbow, digging a little deeper. “Can you very slowly make a fist for me?” Hank already knows what it looks like, but it still turns his stomach to see the changing pressure in the tubes. “Aha, part one of the mystery solved. Relax your hand.” He leaves the pliers standing up in Connor’s arm (Hank’s stomach turns again) and takes a different tool out of one of the drawers, something that looks very like a wrench. Paul turns back, then pauses while digging the screwdriver out of his pocket. “Oh, right. To avoid involuntary movement, I’d like to deactivate your arm. Is that all right?”  
  
Hank scrubs his face with his hands. _When did this short trip to the clinic turn into surgery on demand?_ “Christ.”  
  
Connor’s head turns at the word. “Hank, I’m sorry, I didn’t think- You don’t have to-”  
  
“Shut up, I’m not going anywhere.”  
  
Connor hesitates, then smiles (very faint and very briefly) before turning to Paul. “Go ahead.”  
  
Paul pulls Connor’s sleeve up and over his shoulder, and presses the screwdriver against something on the back of it with another short buzz. He drops the screwdriver back into his pocket, moves one of the pairs of pliers still sticking out of Connor’s arm, adjusts the other pair, then eases the wrench through the bunches of tubing. “You may still get some error messages. Some do, some don’t.” There’s an uncomfortable silence, punctuated by the occasional drip into the bin and very soft, wet plasticky squeaks. “So. Sports, movies, or animals?”  
  
Hank grunts. “Don’t you need to concentrate?”  
  
“This part is very straightforward but may take a few minutes. Of course, if you want to sit in awkward silence, that’s all right too. To each their own.”  
  
“Music,” Connor says, sounding distant again. “I’ve been listening to a lot of different kinds lately. What’s your favorite genre?”  
  
Paul lets go of the wrench to manipulate both sets of pliers. “Ooh, good question. Hard to say. Hmm.” There’s a click deep in Connor’s arm and he takes the wrench again. “Well, I have a weakness for classic rock, to be honest. Electric Light Orchestra is probably my favorite band. What’s your favorite genre so far?”  
  
“I’m not sure. Hank likes heavy metal and jazz.” Paul twists the wrench, there’s an unpleasant metallic squeak, and Connor’s face twitches. The periodic drip into the bin turns into a thin stream for a few seconds.  
  
Paul extracts the wrench, then one pair of pliers. “Errors?”  
  
“Biocomponent #26-A disconnect. Reduced effectiveness. A drop in thirium.”  
  
“Mm-hm. Anything else?”  
  
A ghost of a smile (or possibly a grimace) crosses Connor’s face. “My right arm is nonresponsive.”  
  
“Strange, that.” With the other pair of pliers Paul gently tugs one of the tubes out of Connor’s arm, the pliers pinching it shut just beneath its connective metal socket. While pointing it into the bin he lets go, resulting in another unnerving splash. Wrench in one hand and pliers in the other, he quickly disconnects the other end of the tube with another metallic squeak that sets Hank’s teeth on edge. “Any new errors?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Good. Okay.” After holding the disconnected tube over the bin for a minute to let all the blood drain out of it, Paul picks up the other end with the other pair of pliers and carries it over to the sink, where he runs water through it. “Damn.” He drops the tube into the bin and starts prodding around Connor’s wrist again. “Where are you, you little bastard? Ah.” He leans back and sighs, leaving the pliers sticking out of Connor’s arm. “Second mystery solved. There’s a small hole in a pressurized line, near its carpal valve. It’s been uptaking some of the lost thirium, which is why there wasn’t a drop in efficacy or pressure. I can patch it, which is a short-term solution, or I can tighten the line- there’s enough give I can do that without limiting use. However, to tighten the line, I’ll have to get to the carpal valves, and that means removing your hand.”  
  
Connor nods, only thinking for a moment before saying, “Tighten the line, then, please.” His eyes flick to Hank.  
  
They’re both so matter-of-fact about it, like removing a hand is as simple and low-stakes as cutting hair. There must be some potential for something going wrong, though, or he wouldn’t mention a patch as a potential solution. Hank’s insides are doing a passable imitation of a bag of writhing snakes. “Sorry, son, I think I gotta draw the line here,” he says, feeling guilt sloshing around with the nausea.  
  
“It’s okay,” Connor says, quiet, sincere. “See you after.” Another faint, fleeting smile. “Dad.”  
  
The word settles his stomach a little, anyway.

  


“All set in there,” Paul says when he returns to the observation room. He presses the button to turn on the speaker in the scanning room. “Starting the scan. Please don’t move.” He turns off the speaker, then flips a few switches on the enormous board that looks like it could have come out of a spaceship. Something like the 3D scanner at the gate downstairs, but smaller and with a blue tinge, begins passing over Connor laying on another not-autopsy table. Paul settles into a chair with a sigh, removing his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Ugh. Giving me a headache again.”  
  
Hank remains standing, arms crossed. “What is?”  
  
“All this ‘please’ and ‘thank-you’ foofaraw. Well, I mean,” he amends quickly, “it’s not foofaraw _now_ , obviously, but some days it certainly feels like it. I didn’t get into this field thinking how much fun it would be to ask permission from every damn machine before doing every little thing, you know. I liked them all much better before they had feelings to hurt.”  
  
There’s a slight tingling in Hank’s right hand. He suspects it would go away if he punched the technician in the face. “Is that so?”  
  
Paul puts his glasses back on. “You _ask_ your computer to turn on, do you? Hm? Politely request your toaster to toast your bread? I’m not saying they’re not people now, or as good as, just that everything was less complicated when they weren’t.” The light grid vanishes, and almost immediately a 3D projection of what is presumably Connor’s brain pops up in front of the technician, rotating slowly with little red flags sticking out of it in various places. Paul taps each flag, reads its paragraph of information, then closes it, chewing on his lower lip the entire time. “Mm-hm. That’s what I was afraid of.” He turns in the chair and looks up at Hank with a mixed expression of resignation and frustration. “We don’t have a title for it yet- that’s what the bright folks on twelve are working on -but for ease of communication and for most intents and purposes, Connor has PTSD.”  
  
Again, it’s said in such a nonchalant way, like post-traumatic stress is as mundane a fact as eye color. Hank’s known a few people diagnosed with PTSD. Most of them didn’t come back to work. One of them ate his gun. “What’s treatment look like?”  
  
Paul shrugs like he couldn’t care less. The tingling in Hank’s hand intensifies. “Don’t know. Android psychology is about as young a field as there is. I’m sure the folks on twelve will welcome another volunteer for them to practice on.” He presses the microphone button. “You can get up now. We’ll meet you outside.” He glances at Hank. “I don’t suppose you’d break it to him.”  
  
It isn’t even cowardice, Hank realizes in disgust. The man’s just tired of treating androids as deserving of compassion.  
  
Turns out punching Paul does get rid of the tingling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It only occurred to me after the fact that it might not, in fact, be clear what happened to Connor's arm. The short version is that one of his muscle-analogue biocomponents got partially disconnected near his elbow, causing a slow thirium-310 leak, and simultaneously caused a small hole near his wrist in one of the thinner lines responsible for making sure his blood is pressurized properly. Because it was a sealed environment the thirium didn't evaporate, the thirium mostly pooled by his wrist because of gravity, and because the hole in the line was so far down in his arm it sucked thirium back in, which kept his pressure within normal parameters.


	7. Connor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now the comfort.

Connor balances his coin on the end of a finger for several seconds despite the moving car. “You shouldn’t have punched him.”  
  
Hank snorts, unrepentant. “He shouldn’t have been such an asshole. And hey, I didn’t punch the other asshole, right? I gotta get some brownie points for that.”  
  
Connor shakes his head, but can’t hide a slight smile. “You’re lucky they believed you when you said there were grounds for a lawsuit. Paul Mills wasn’t strictly wrong, you know. His opinion is one of the milder of the less-than-supportive attitudes.”  
  
“That doesn’t give him free rein to be an asshole. On top of that, he’s a moron: he should’ve known better than to act like your mental health doesn’t matter when talking to the guy answering to ‘Dad.’ Anyway, how is he ever going to learn to deal with emotional reactions if someone doesn’t react emotionally once in a while?” Connor hums, more amusement than agreement. His coin catches the light as he tosses it into the air. “You’re taking this situation suspiciously well.”  
  
There’s a moment of quiet, broken only by the hum of the car tires and the bright _ting!_ of the coin. “I’ll be upset later,” Connor says. It’s half confession, half warning. The cloud is still there, waiting for its next opportunity to turn everything upside down, but it’s lifted for the moment. “Right now I’m just glad to be out of the building. And I’m tired. And the database updated.”  
  
“What data- Oh, the name change.”  
  
“Connor Anderson.” He says it like he’s tasting it, breaking it down to its core elements. He looks over and Hank meets his gaze. A transitory error message flickers up, warning about a non-existent rise in temperature, and then fades. Earlier, he felt cold, gutted, carved open and hollowed out; now he feels warm, wrapped in Hank’s scarf and his last name like it’s holding him together. He _belongs_ now, in a way he never did with CyberLife or Amanda. “In every official database, according to all online public records, my name is Connor Anderson.”  
  
Hank clears his throat. “How’s it feel?”  
  
Like reactivation. Like being pulled away from racing traffic or the edge of a roof. Like a seatbelt. Like something wound tight and buried in his ribcage is slowly unspooling, uncurling like new leaves, putting down roots somewhere. “Good,” he says. The rest sounds like one of the poems he heard the other night- both too deep and too silly to say out loud. Was it really only one night ago? “Very good.”  
  
“Good.” Hank clears his throat again. “Where to now?”  
  
“I don’t care.” He dances the coin across the backs of his fingers. He can feel a slight difference in his arm, though it’s mostly strength, not precision. They’ll call in a few days when his #26-A has been repaired, or sooner if they can’t repair it and have to build a new one.  
  
One thing at a time. He flips the coin again.

  


They end up at a park that’s new to Connor. Half a dozen children are playing, pushing each other on swings and chasing each other on the equipment. They’re all bundled up, but no red-tipped noses peek over their coat collars, and as they call and tease and shriek with laughter, no warm breaths cloud in the air. The only adult seeming to watch them is an older-looking woman, also wrapped up, whose LED flickers blue under the brim of her knit hat.  
  
Hank spots a coffee cart and nudges his shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”  
  
“Okay.” Nearby, there’s a curved concrete wall sheltering a bench; Connor settles onto it, at the far left side. The clouds are beginning to crush together, dark with harsh gleaming edges, and he makes a mental note to keep a close eye on the weather. They should be home before the sleet comes. Neither of them will want to be out in it. Before that, perhaps they should stop at a store so he can get things to make Hank’s dinner. He contemplates recipes. Something warm…  
  
Hank approaches and sits next to him, both hands occupied. “Oof. Here.” He hands one of the thick paper cups to Connor, who takes it automatically. Hank removes the lid from the other cup and blows on it before taking a careful sip. “Hmm. Not bad.”  
  
Hank’s cup is definitely coffee, but the one he handed to Connor smells sweeter. He carefully sniffs the steam. His analysis comes back ‘hot chocolate.’ It’s certainly heating up his hands. “I didn’t know you liked hot chocolate, Hank.”  
  
Hank snorts. “That’s for you, dummy.”  
  
Connor looks at him in growing confusion. “I don’t taste, Hank.” This is a conversation they’ve already had. He can turn off the software, but all that gets him is the strange feeling that his mouth only half exists, a limited sense of pressure and temperature, and a persistent ping that his tongue is offline.  
  
“Maybe not, but that doesn’t mean you won’t enjoy it. The sensation, the temperature. I dunno.” Hank shrugs and sips his coffee again. “You don’t have to drink it if you don’t want to.”  
  
Connor hesitates, then mimics Hank by taking off the lid and blowing across the top of the liquid, watching it ripple. He turns off the analysis software and carefully tips some of the hot chocolate into his mouth. A sensor identifies the temperature at 140°F/60°C, near-ideal for hot drinks as concluded by most of the scientific community. He swallows with a little difficulty, unused to the sensation; the heat persists in his throat and settles in his stomach. He only mulls for a moment before coming to a conclusion. “I like it. It feels nice.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
“Thank you.” He shifts on the bench so their shoulders touch.  
  
Hank reaches over to push Connor’s hat into his eyes again. “You’re welcome.”  
  
He straightens the hat and pretends to glare. “Stop that.”  
  
Hank pretends he isn’t smiling. “Make me.”  
  
They sit for a while in the almost-silence, the wind whistling occasionally around the concrete windbreak or through the bare tree branches, the children still laughing and playing. Hank finishes his coffee and sets the cup aside, settles back against the bench, stretching his arms across the top of it. Connor feels that non-existent rise in temperature again and labels it ‘contentment.’ “I like this.”  
  
“You mentioned.”  
  
“No, I mean-” Connor gestures at nothing in particular, careful not to spill any hot chocolate. “I like _this._ ”  
  
Hank nods slowly. “Freezing our asses off on the hardest park bench known to man, listening to children scream in a mostly-dead park in early November. Makes sense.”  
  
Connor puts his cup on the ground and then tucks himself under Hank’s arm. “ _This,_ you jackass.”  
  
Hank lets out a surprised laugh and settles his arm across Connor’s shoulders. “Me too.” Again, there’s an almost-silence, interrupted after another minute by Hank’s cell phone ringing. “Ah, hell.” He pulls the phone out of his pocket, then answers it and stands. “Anderson.”  
  
Connor suspects it’s work: Hank’s shoulders are tight with tension as he steps away. He tries to ignore his own anxiety and picks up both cups to throw them out. Out of the sheltering concrete, the wind pushes against him, fighting the warmth in his stomach. Six feet away, six DE400s look up from their quiet conversation, one of them stopping mid-sentence when he makes eye contact with Connor. The warmth vanishes as it if never existed and Connor retreats behind the windbreak, heart pounding. Hank is leaning on a tree, still on his phone, head bent, listening and nodding.  
  
“Connor?” One of the DE400s comes around the corner, hands shoved into the pockets of his brilliantly blue coat. His beanie is cherry red and pulled down almost over his eyes. With no facial change or visible serial number, he could be any of the thousands of DE400s.  
  
_Stress level rising._ “Yes?” Connor shifts his weight slightly, watching for one of the DE400’s hands to emerge from his pocket in a fist.  
  
The DE400 exhales in something near a laugh, shifting on his feet, but in surprise. “Wow. That’s- Wow.” He grins. “Cool. This is- super cool. Hey-” He pulls a mittened hand out of his pocket and offers it. Open. Inviting. Connor shakes it on autopilot. “I’m Matt. Matt Freeman. I’ve always wanted to meet you. Again, I guess, though we didn’t- Uh, anyway. I just wanted to say thank you.”  
  
“You’re welcome.” It’s stiff, rote, because Connor is still struggling to process, part of his brain scanning for threats despite the positive interaction.  
  
Matt nods and turns to leave. “Well, my friends and I-” He hesitates, smile faltering. “Hey, um. I know that, like, uh… Well, I’ve heard some of the guys talking. About, you know, the revolution and stuff. I just wanted to say, I think they’re being stupid assholes about it. For what it’s worth, I think you did the right thing.”  
  
Connor shifts, some of the tension finally bleeding off. “That’s… good to hear. Thank you.”  
  
“Hey, thank you!” The smile returns, as bright and cheerful as Matt’s clothes, and he waves as he returns to his friends. Connor mimics it, his delayed reaction meaning he mostly waves at Matt’s back, then sits down on the bench. After a few minutes of processing his heart rate is beginning to normalize, though it speeds up again when Hank sits next to him with a sigh.  
  
“Just had a nice long talk with Captain Blake. The- I guess we’re going with autopsy, though that doesn’t sound- anyway. The whatever-the-fuck came back on Lia Freeman, clearing you of any and all wrongdoing, _as is fuckin’ the case_ , so you can come back in tomorrow _if you want_ , but if you need some time off that’s okay too. I’d take it, if I were you. And I told her about the- y’know, the other thing.”  
  
“The PTSD?” Connor clarifies, slightly amused at Hank’s discomfort, though the idea of returning to work without a plan in mind threatens to send his stress level back up. Having another panic attack while at work would be… very bad. For everyone.  
  
Hank rubs his hands together and exhales in a rush. “Yeah. That. She said we’ll talk about it when you’re ready to come back, just the three of us, and we’ll work out how we’ll deal with it. I hope one of you has some idea how that’s gonna fuckin’ work, because I sure as hell don’t fuckin’ know. It’s not like you can go on medication.”  
  
“I’m sure there’s something.” He hopes there’s something. “There are multiple kinds of therapy for humans that don’t involve medication, though I’m sure they’ll need some reworking to help an android.”  
  
Hank sighs again, then leans against the back of the bench. He looks at Connor for a long moment in silence. “I’ve got your back through this, Connor,” he says finally, quietly. “Whatever you need, whatever you wanna do.”  
  
“If I quit?”  
  
Hank starts, sitting forward. “Do you want to?”  
  
Connor shrugs. “No, of course not, but if there’s no effective therapy, I might have to.”  
  
“Well, don’t get ahead of yourself. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” Hank slings his arm across Connor’s shoulders and pulls him closer. “Together. Whatever it is. Whatever happens. I’m here for you, okay?”  
  
Something like contentment, but warmer, floods through Connor’s core. He presses against Hank, hugging him again. For a moment, he’s overwhelmed: he supported Hank through the paralyzing grief of losing Cole and the resulting alcoholism, and now Hank will support him through this. Whatever it is. Whatever happens. “I love you, Dad.”  
  
Hank exhales, then presses a kiss to the top of his head through the baseball cap. “I love you too, son.”  
  
Connor shivers. It’s a good shiver. “I like that. A lot.”  
  
Hank’s grip tightens. “Good, because you’re gonna be hearing it a lot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [the author has perished of feels]


End file.
